Inside the military prison.

Jin Wutu, who had been constantly on edge, had a nightmare.

In his nightmare, all the crimes he had committed were revealed.

All his schemes and plans, all his despicable acts and betrayals, were seen through by everyone.

A terrifying ghost figure manipulated things in the dark…

Nailing Wuyinya is shrouded in mist year-round, like a dream woven from纱. The mountain is steep, and on its sheer, thousand-ren cliffs hangs an ancient path wide enough for only half a foot. Beside the path, a dilapidated stone tablet is inscribed with six characters: “Enter this gate, forget your name.” The words have been mostly gnawed away by moss. Mo Gui stood at the foot of the cliff, looking up, only to see white mist surging like a tide, as if the entire mountain were breathing. The third key in his hand remained warm, yet it subtly vibrated with a hint of unease.

He knew that “Ying Ti” was waiting inside.

Since returning from Chenzhou Dao, he had traveled day and night to reach this place. Along the way, the celestial phenomena grew increasingly severe: birds flew backward in the sky, streams flowed upstream, and even children in villages recited fragments of the “Shouwang Lu” in unison, their eyes glowing with an eerie golden light. He had tried to investigate the reason; as he approached the village entrance, the ground suddenly cracked open, and countless withered hands stretched out from it, grabbing at his ankles. Fortunately, the resonance of the remnant jade and the primitive threads weaving a protective shield allowed him to escape. That night, he sat withered in the forest until dawn, seven whispers echoing repeatedly:

“Obsession births shadows; shadows become human.”

At this moment, he finally understood that the so-called “Ying Ti” was not someone else, but a replica formed by the obsession of a predecessor. The first guardian fell here, and his unwillingness and regret never dissipated. Instead, under the erosion of time, they solidified into a physical entity, borrowing his form to mislead later comers.

Mo Gui took a deep breath and stepped onto the ancient path.

With each step, the mist receded three chi to either side, revealing mottled bloodstains beneath his feet. Those bloodstains had not dried; instead, they slowly writhed with his steps, gathering like living things into a line of small characters:

“You have come too late.”

His heart tightened, but he did not stop. Whether it was “too late” or not could no longer be determined by words. Fate never forgave tardiness, nor was it merciful to early arrivals. The path he was to walk was, by nature, a journey against fate.

Halfway up the mountain, a zither melody suddenly began.

Clear and distant, it seemed to come from the clouds, yet also to originate from the depths of his heart. It was a tune of “Gui Qu Lai,” the melody his mother loved to play most during her lifetime. Mo Gui’s steps abruptly halted, his throat choked, almost to tears. But just as his mind wavered, the remnant jade suddenly grew hot, and a golden light swept across his sea of consciousness, severing the zither music.

“Auditory hallucination,” he murmured to himself, his fingertips digging into his palm. “My mother is long gone; no one in this world will play this tune for me again.”

Before his words finished, a person emerged from the mist ahead.

Dressed in white as pure as snow, with features as exquisite as a painting, holding a jiaowei qin, she was precisely his mother as Mo Gui remembered her. She smiled at him, her eyes as gentle as water: “Child, you’ve grown thin.”

Mo Gui clenched his fists, his nails digging into his flesh, but he dared not look directly at her.

“You are fake,” he gritted out.

“Do you not know in your heart whether I am real or fake?” The woman gently strummed the strings, and as the sound waves rippled, the mist flowed with them, revealing scenes from the past: mother and son relying on each other in childhood, hugging firewood for warmth in winter; the young man leaving home, his mother waving at the door, her temples touched with the first frost; the night before Duanbei Gu, she appeared in a dream, whispering: “Do not forget your original intention.”

Every scene was breathtakingly real.

“If I were an illusion, why would I remember these things?” she said softly. “Let go, Mo Gui. Why must you bear such a heavy destiny? Come home with me, and let’s brew tea, read books, watch the stars, just like before… Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Mo Gui closed his eyes, tears streaming down.

He knew this was a lure, a trap woven by “Ying Ti” using the obsession of the first guardian as a base, combined with the softest parts of his own heart. Perhaps that predecessor also yearned to return to an ordinary life, unwilling to fight fate again, and ultimately fell because of it. And this illusion was the echo of his failure.

But…

But could he truly let go?

“Mother…” he finally spoke, his voice hoarse. “If I could turn back, why wouldn’t I? But if everyone stops because of yearning, who will write the new scroll? Who will light the eighth star?”

He opened his eyes, his gaze like a blade.

“You are not her. You are merely using her appearance to conceal your cowardice!”

In an instant, winds surged, and primitive threads erupted from the remnant jade, intertwining into a net in the air, rushing toward the “mother.” Her smile remained unchanged; she gently plucked a string, and a wave of sound met the golden light, tearing it apart. Immediately after, the entire mountain shook, and countless figures emerged from the mist—all people Mo Gui had encountered in his life: the child who gave him flowers in the village, the old monk in the ruined temple, the white-robed man from Duanbei Gu, even the corpse in the blue-patterned Daoist robe… They called his name in unison, pleading for him to stay.

“Mo Gui, don’t go…”

“Rest if you’re tired…”

“No one asked you to save the world…”

Mo Gui stumbled backward, his mind on the verge of collapse. At that moment, the third key suddenly leaped up, suspended before his chest, its white light blazing, illuminating a hundred zhang. The illusions let out mournful wails and dissipated one after another. Only the “mother” remained standing, her eyes showing pain for the first time.

“Do you truly… no longer need me?” she asked.

Mo Gui knelt to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably: “I need you! But precisely because I need you, I cannot stay! If even I succumb to false warmth, then in this world, who would dare to face the truth?”

As his words fell, the zither music ceased abruptly.

The woman’s figure began to disintegrate, turning into specks of light dust. Before vanishing, she smiled one last time: “Good child… go.”

The mist finally dispersed.

Before him stood a stone hall, its lintel inscribed with the four characters “Chu Shou Zhi Ting,” written with vigorous strokes yet conveying a deep weariness. Mo Gui wiped away his tears and walked slowly inside.

The hall was empty, save for a stone platform on which lay a blank book. As he approached, the pages turned automatically, and ink gradually appeared, revealing a past event written in blood:

My name is Xuan Zhao, the first guardian.

I once believed that if I were strong enough, I could prevent fate from crushing the innocent.

I studied destiny, understood star orbits, locked void rifts, suppressed evil abysses. For a hundred years, I fought alone, never once defeated.

Until that day, I saw my own shadow speak.

It said: “You died long ago—died thirty years ago on that snowy night.”

It turned out that the real Xuan Zhao had already sacrificed himself, and I was merely a remnant soul gathered by obsession, trapped here, repeating a guardianship that refused to end.

Tragically, even knowing this, I was unwilling to dissipate.

Because once I leave, this gate will open, and evil spirits will invade the mortal world again.

So I stayed, becoming “Ying Ti,” waiting for the next successor to arrive and personally sever my obsession.

If you read this far, please forgive my weakness.

And please… close my eyes for me.

Mo Gui finished reading, silent for a long time.

He finally understood that the so-called trial was not a test of strength or wisdom, but a forcing of the arrival to confront the essence of “obsession”—it was both the driving force for progress and the shackles that trapped the soul.

He slowly took out the third key and inserted it into the hole in the center of the stone platform.

With a rumble, the ground cracked open, and a stone statue rose from the abyss. It was an old man, draped in a faded red robe, his face withered, eyes closed, hands folded before his abdomen, holding a crimson key like a solidified heart.

Mo Gui knelt on one knee and softly said, “Senior, this junior means no offense; I only wish to carry on your unfinished aspirations.”

As his words fell, the stone statue opened its eyes.

Flame-like pupils shone directly, instantly piercing Mo Gui’s sea of consciousness. Countless images surged in: a young man standing under the starry sky, vowing to protect all beings; a great battle, seven figures fighting against the sky-full of dark clouds; finally, that man standing alone on a collapsing altar, igniting his own fate to become the fire of the seal…

“What did you see?” the stone statue spoke, its voice like thunder.

“I saw your sacrifice,” Mo Gui replied. “And I also saw… your unwillingness to leave.”

“Then do you know why I became Ying Ti?”

“Because you couldn’t let go.”

“Wrong.” The stone statue shook its head. “Because I was afraid. Afraid that after my death, no one would succeed me; afraid that the scroll would be covered in dust; afraid that fate would once again spiral out of control. So I refused to dissipate, building a shell of obsession, imprisoning myself on this mountain for a thousand years.”

Mo Gui lowered his head: “Then now… are you willing to let go?”

The stone statue was silent for a long time, then finally sighed: “If I am unwilling, you cannot forcibly take the Scarlet Key. But if I am willing, you must also bear the corresponding price—with each fate gate you open, a part of your memory will be lost. By the time the seventh gate opens, you might… not even remember who you are.”

Mo Gui’s body trembled.

Memory was his only truth. Without memory, what would he rely on to uphold his beliefs? Whose smile would remind him that his original intention remained?

But he also knew that this hurdle had to be crossed.

“I accept,” he said.

The flames in the stone statue’s eyes extinguished, and the Scarlet Key in its palm slowly rose, merging into the remnant jade. At the same time, a violent sense of detachment swept over him. Mo Gui clutched his head, writhing in pain. A segment of memory spilled out like an overturned hourglass—it was his eighth birthday, when his mother cooked him a bowl of longevity noodles with a poached egg on top. She said: “Eat it, and may you have peace every year.” The warmth of that bowl of noodles, the tone of that sentence, the curve of that smile… all became blurred, like smoke dispersed by the wind.

He cried, yet he was still smiling.

“It’s worth it,” he murmured.

The remnant jade vibrated, and beyond the eighth star, the ninth quietly lit up, faint but firm. The seven whispers sounded again; this time, they were no longer mere warnings but began to chant an ancient song, its lyrics obscure and difficult to understand, yet his soul resonated with it.

When he walked out of the stone hall, the sky cleared through the clouds.

Looking back, Wuyinya had returned to serenity, as if there had never been illusions or battles. Only a wild flower on the mountain peak swayed in the wind, as if bidding farewell.

Mo Gui took out the torn map scroll, compared it to the positions of the stars, and determined his next destination: Huangquan Jing in the Ximo desert, the burial place of the fourth guardian. It was said that it connected to the edge of Jiuyou, and the underground water veins flowed with the dying words of the deceased; drinking a sip would allow one to hear the last thoughts of the dead. But precisely because of this, it was highly likely to attract “Qieyi Zhe”—evil cultivators who specifically devoured memories for power.

Just as he was about to set off, he suddenly felt something warm in his sleeve.

Taking it out, he saw it was the broken bronze key that had belonged to the Daoist in the blue-patterned robe. The originally dark threads of fate now faintly glowed with silver light, as if responding. Even stranger, when he gazed at its broken end, he vaguely saw a line of extremely fine characters carved inside the metal:

“Do not trust the white-robed man; he is also a prisoner.”

Mo Gui’s heart was shaken.

The white-robed man was a prisoner? Trapped by whom? And bound by what kind of fate? If so, was his guidance meant for salvation, or to complete a larger cycle?

Questions tangled in his heart like vines, but he did not stop walking.

He knew that the closer he got to the truth, the more real the lies would appear. And all he could rely on were the constantly lighting stars in his hand and the heart that always beat in his chest.

Three days later, Mo Gui entered Ximo.

Thousands of miles of yellow sand, the sun like blood. In the distance, a withered well stood tall, its mouth built with black stones, surrounded by rusty swords stuck into the ground, each pointing downwards, as if suppressing some entity. A stone tablet stood by the well, inscribed: “Drinkers lose their souls; questioners lose their lives.”

He crouched down, took out a clay bowl from his satchel, and carefully scooped up a ladle of eerie green liquid. His face was reflected on the water’s surface—but on that face, the silhouette of the white-robed man briefly appeared!

Mo Gui quickly retreated, the bowl falling to the ground and shattering.

“Something is indeed wrong,” he murmured.

Just then, a low laugh came from the bottom of the well: “You have finally come, the Eighth One.”

A figure climbed out, wrapped entirely in gray cloth, its face covered by a bronze mask, its eyes empty and lifeless. It held a rotten human hand, its fingers still twitching slightly.

“I am the guardian of the netherworld, and the last person to have seen the fourth guardian,” the figure said hoarsely. “You want to know the truth? Then drink the well water and ask him yourself.”

Mo Gui stared at the well, an alarm ringing wildly in his heart.

But he knew that some answers had to be obtained at a cost.

He closed his eyes and leaped into the well.

Darkness swallowed everything.

After an unknown period, he opened his eyes to find himself standing in a long corridor paved with bones. On both side walls, countless human faces flowed, their mouths screaming silently. At the end, an old general in armor sat, half a jade slip plunged into his chest—he was the fourth guardian.

“You’ve come,” the old general looked up, his voice weary. “I knew you would.”

“Senior, I want to know… about the white-robed man.”

The old general smiled bitterly: “He was the first guardian, and the most tragic one. He wanted to rewrite the scroll but was backfired by the rules, his soul split. Half became the guide, the other half a prisoner trapped in a temporal rift. He told you to find the keys, but in reality, he wants to achieve self-liberation through your hand.”

“So… he’s using me?”

“Not entirely,” the old general shook his head. “He also sincerely hopes you succeed. It’s just that his ‘sincerity’ has long been twisted by fate. Just like this well, it can both communicate with spirits and confuse the mind.”

Mo Gui was silent for a long time, then finally asked: “Then how should I distinguish truth from falsehood?”

“By here,” the old general pointed to his heart. “When all clues point to contradictions, when everyone might be lying, only the light in your heart will not betray you.”

Before his words finished, the entire corridor began to collapse.

Mo Gui suddenly woke up, finding himself floating in the well water, his limbs cold, another segment of memory lost—it was the summer night when he was twelve, enjoying fireflies with the girl next door. That innocence and joy were now blurred and indistinct.

He struggled to swim out of the well, gasping for breath.

The netherworld guardian was gone, only a note fluttering before him:

“The fourth key is within you, but when it awakens, it will also awaken the past you least wish to face.”

Mo Gui was stunned.

Immediately, a burning pain shot through his abdomen, as if a spark had ignited. He lifted his clothes to see a dark golden key phantom appearing in his Dantian, slowly sinking deep into his meridians.

He knew that it was not just a key, but a tomb of memories.

And beneath that tomb lay buried the truth he had always avoided—the real reason for his mother’s death, and the fundamental reason why he was chosen to be the “Writer.”

The night wind howled, sweeping yellow sand past the well’s edge.

Mo Gui looked up at the starry sky, nine stars already arranged in an arc, echoing the Big Dipper. The remnant jade rested quietly against his chest, the seven whispers gradually subsiding, as if also waiting for that moment to arrive.

He didn’t know how many more trials, how many lies, how many memories would vanish ahead.

But he knew that as long as he remembered the meaning of the name “Mo Gui,” and as long as he was willing to fight for light, he would surely reach the end of this road.

Even if, ultimately, what awaited him was an end hall with no exit.